


The Length of Our Shadows

by 6waystoSunday



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Corin is Hunting for his Twin, Drama, Escape, F/M, Forced Marriage, Friendship, Gen, Giants, Horse Racing, Hurt/Comfort, Leopards are Awesome, Mentor/Protégé, Narnia and the North, Prophetic Dreams, Shasta Gets Mentored, Slavery, Slow Burn, The Horse and His Boy AU No One Asked For, Worldbuilding, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-28 10:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21134885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/6waystoSunday/pseuds/6waystoSunday
Summary: Alternative Universe. Shasta never escapes with Bree and now faces slavery, but destiny likes staying on course. Across the desert, a young prince begins dreaming of a lost brother and a High King prepares for war in the north. Amid multiple escapes, illegal horse races and outrunning armies, will Shasta ever find his place in the world?





	1. Forty Crescents

**Author's Note:**

> This story will brush up on a few mature themes, such as slavery and forced marriage. I will try to keep them as mild as possible, but please be advised if you are sensitive to these. There will also be some mild violence, but otherwise nothing explicit. 
> 
> This is in essence a reimagining of ‘The Horse and His Boy,’ and although it will keep many of the canon events, it completely disregards the canon timeline.

_Everywhere the years bring to all enough of sin and sorrow; but in slavery the very dawn of life is darkened by these shadows._

\- Harriet Ann Jacobs

**~.~**

The journey to Andradin’s home was not pleasant.

The night before was blurry. Shasta remembered sneaking out to make his escape with Bree. Then there was scuffling and pain in the back of his head. He heard Arsheesh cursing at him just before darkness took him, sure of only one thing. He had failed.

In the morning, Shasta had woken up with his head still ringing from the blow Arsheesh had dealt him. He panicked as the memories of the previous night came flooding into his mind and jumped to his feet. Or at least, he tried to jump to his feet.

He gave a sharp cry as he fell backwards, not having realized his arms and legs were bound tightly with rope. He landed painfully on his side and was sure that he had bruised his hip in the fall. Ignoring the pain, he struggled for a few minutes, the impending danger clear in his mind.

They had tied him up to prevent him escaping!

Craning his head, he was able to look out the small slit in the wall that acted as a window. The pale, grey light of early morning was starting to sneak in. He didn’t have much time! He had to get to Bree! He tried biting at the ropes, but they were thick and the knot too strong for him to work it out on his own. His wrists were starting to chafe as he struggled, rubbing painfully against the rough texture of the ropes.

Shasta had been a fisherman all his life and he knew a well-tied knot when he saw one. This was perhaps one of Arsheesh’s crowning glories.

He heard movement in the house.

Miserably, Shasta stopped struggling and listened, knowing that any moment Arsheesh and the Tarkaan would be coming for him.

It was too late.

Even if he somehow managed to free himself from the ropes before they came to get him, there was no way he would be able to get to Bree and away in time. His heart began to sink and real fear rose up in his throat, like bile. He tried to calm down; telling himself that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the Tarkaan would take pity on him, or grow to like him. But the moment Arsheesh and the Tarkaan entered the room and he saw the cold, harsh look in his eyes, Shasta knew his hopes were pointless.

“Ready the boy,” the Tarkaan said, his voice clipped, “We’ll be leaving soon. Keep his hands bound. There will be no repeat of last night.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Arsheesh was hasty to say, bowing his old head to his guest, “I’ll do so immediately.”

The Tarkaan nodded, giving Shasta one last cold look and marched out again.

Arsheesh gave Shasta another clout to the ear and scolded him for embarrassing his poor father, who had raised him, fed him and nurtured him for twelve years. Shasta, tears burning in his eyes from being hit, managed to glare at Arsheesh.

“You are not my father,” he said quietly, defiantly. Arsheesh hit him again.

It didn’t hurt as much this time. Shasta looked at the man he had called his father all his life and felt…nothing.

He found this odd. He should feel betrayed, angry, sad…something. But it was like Arsheesh’s last blow had severed whatever regard he had felt for the fisherman. Instead, Shasta felt oddly calm and somewhat detached from the scene. For much of his life, he had tried to win this man’s love. For a time, he had even deluded himself into thinking he had it. But if Arsheesh felt anything for Shasta, he wouldn’t be doing this to him.

“You will obey your master well,” Arsheesh was saying while he worked to free Shasta’s legs, “His favour is the only thing you will live for.”

He spoke the words shortly, his old voice as clipped as ever. Shasta wriggled his bare feet as the ropes fell away, saying nothing and refusing to look at the fisherman.

The feeling of detachment was still there. He could feel the fear in his own mind still, but it was like a curtain had been drawn, blocking it from view.

Arsheesh hauled him roughly to his feet and made him walk, gripping his arm in a painful pinch. Shasta had to bite down on a cry as the bony fingers dug into his flesh. When they got outside, Bree was saddled and the Tarkaan was already mounted. His red beard looked darker in the dim light of morning and he was fingering his sword as he watched Shasta and Arsheesh.

Bree pawed the ground, shaking his mane out anxiously. The dapple-grey stallion turned sad eyes on Shasta. As Arsheesh and the Tarkaan spoke briefly, the fisherman making scraping bows and accepting a bag of money, Shasta shot the horse a small, brave smile.

_I’ll be alright_, he tried to tell him,_ its okay_.

Then he felt a tug on his wrists and realized the Tarkaan was going to lead him by a rope the entire journey. His smile faded immediately and trepidation filled him. Bree’s words the previous night rang in his head.

_You’d better be lying dead tonight than go to be a human slave in his house tomorrow_.

As he was led along, walking behind Bree and the Tarkaan, he shot one look back to the small hovel he had spent his entire life in.

Arsheesh had his back to them now and the sun had risen completely, shining brightly over the ocean. Feeling another tug, Shasta was forced to turn his face away from the sunlight and follow.

** ~:~ **

For days they traveled, Shasta struggling to keep up with the pace. Bree seemed to be trying to help him, slowing down as much as he could before the Tarkaan whipped his hide with a long, leather wrapped stick. Once, he struck the stallion so hard that blood was drawn on his rear. But Bree maintained his slower walk.

“Useless animal!” Shasta heard the Tarkaan snarl, “What has tired you so?”

And Shasta became afraid for Bree. What if the Tarkan decided to hurt Bree more, or get rid of him because he was not acting as he should? Shasta knew little of horses, but he suspected they were not kept long if they couldn’t earn their keep. What if Bree’s kindness had unintended consequences?

It was on their third night of travel that Shasta had a chance to talk with Bree again. The Tarkaan had led them to an inn and tied Shasta up in Bree’s stall. His feet were left unbound; though they hurt so much Shasta wasn’t sure he would be able to escape on them if he tried. The end of the rope was tied to a metal ring in the wall, usually used for tethering horses. There was enough length for him to move around the stall a bit, but not by much.

The Tarkaan provided the boy with some stale bread for his supper and unceremoniously poured water for him to drink. Shasta cupped his still bound hands and tried to drink as much as he could before the Tarkaan left him there with strict orders to the stable hand not to let him escape. He was still thirsty and the bread hardly seemed to fill the void in his stomach, but most of all, Shasta was exhausted. He settled into the straw though and waited for a chance to talk to Bree. Before long, the stable doors were locked and bolted and the lights put out.

“Shasta? Shasta are you alright?”

In the dim light cast by the moon, Shasta could just make out the massive shape of Bree’s head.

“Yes,” he croaked, his mouth still dry and began to express his fears to Bree.

The horse listened in silence and shook his head violently.

“The cruel, heartless man!” Bree cut him off, “Never you mind about me, I’ve dealt with this for years and I can deal with it some more. I shan’t let you suffer anymore than I have to. Oh Shasta, I am sorry it turned out like this.”

“It’s alright,” the boy said bravely, too tired to do anything more, “It’s not your fault. Will you tell me of Narnia again, Bree? I should very much like to hear it.”

He felt Bree blow into his face and come to lay next him, letting the boy use him for a pillow. Shasta was grateful. He had been sleeping on the ground and feeling the chill of the night. Bree was soft and warm. He closed his eyes as Bree started to tell him about mountains and talking beasts. Before he drifted off to sleep, he thought he heard a voice that was not Bree’s. It seemed to fill his mind for a moment, like a long forgotten memory. A sad and sweet memory, the kind that would bring a tear to the eye, for it sounded so mournful, but so filled with love.

“_Rest, little one._”

**~:~ **

Bree nuzzled the sleeping boy gently.

It was an hour before dawn and the stable hand was back to feed and water the horses. He knew his master would be along later, no doubt having taken drink in the inn as he was wont to do. He watched Shasta’s face and let out a very strained sigh. Shasta might not believe it was his fault, but Bree certainly did. Had he been quicker or quieter, perhaps they would have managed to escape.

But now the boy was a slave, just like him.

This poor, simple little boy who had never been nurtured, never had a kind word thrown his way, but still smiled bravely and was concerned with Bree’s wellbeing. He humbled the warhorse.

Bree took stock of the boy’s bare feet, now scuffed and blistered from all the running he had done the past few days. There were fresh rips in his already ragged clothes and Bree could see bloodstains from all the times he had fallen and scrapped himself in the dirt.

Worse were the bruises.

Some caused by those same falls, the others from hits the Tarkaan had dealt the boy for slowing him down. His left cheek had a particularly nasty one, all yellow and green. On his pale face, it looked even worse. There were dark circles under his eyes and his lips were chapped badly too.

Bree knew the boy was exhausted and dehydrated. And he knew this was being done as punishment for his small act of rebellion. This was how they broke down a spirit. This was how they turned men into slaves. Bree knew because this was how they broke horses sometimes, especially the most willful. They exhausted them, starved them and dehydrated them. They took everything away and made them dependent on their new masters for those things that sustained life. If the horse didn’t break, he died.

Bree sometimes wondered if that wasn’t a mercy.

He had been taken as a foal and had become too afraid to disobey his supposed masters. Unlike his dumb brethren, Bree had watched and learned. He had adapted quickly. He had assimilated in the hopes that they would never discover the secret of his origin. For what fate awaited him then? To be sold as a piece of entertainment? Killed for being some kind of unholy beast? He couldn’t take the chance. With all the battles he had seen in his life, Bree had never considered himself a coward before. He had dreamt of escape, but knew a different hand would only take him if he tried. So he never tried, the fear of failing too great. Even with this boy on his back, escape was a great gamble. But when Bree had seen the young soul, something inside had urged him. Something had told him he had to try this time.

And now this.

He did not want to watch this young foal be broken. He did not want to see that brave smile fade away. Perhaps he was a coward for not rebelling long ago, but he would become braver. For this boy, he would become braver.

“Don’t let them break your spirit, Shasta,” he pleaded in a quiet murmur, “Please.”

A sharp, metal clang rang through the stable, making Shasta’s eyes snap open.

A bleary, green gaze turned to Bree, clearly still trapped somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.

“Its just the stable hand,” the horse whispered, “I won’t be able to speak to you for much longer. We’re only another day away from Anradin’s home, can you hold on that long?”

Shasta nodded, managing to sit up.

“Good,” Bree noticed the boy was licking his cracked lips, “Now, before the stable hand comes. Can you make it to the water trough? You need to drink something at least.”

Shasta nodded, but it took a few gentle pushes from Bree and some struggling on his part to make it to the trough. When he did, the boy practically dumped his whole blonde head into the water, drinking greedily.

Bree watched, ready to fetch him out if he did not resurface soon.

Shasta’s head suddenly bopped out and he threw up at the side, coughing and crying. Bree moved forward immediately.

“Easy, easy,” he tried to calm the boy down softly, “You’ll be alright, just take it slower.”

Shasta calmed down after a few minutes and nodded, tears still streaming down his face. He did as he was told and used his cupped hands to scoop out more water and drink what he could. When he was done, he turned to Bree.

“I feel sick,” he admitted softly and sniffed, “I’m scared Bree.”

Bree’s heart ached for the young foal and he gently nudged the boy with his nose, no longer saying anything for fear of the stable hand now being too close. Shasta buried his face in Bree’s neck and started crying, his bound hands reaching up to grip at Bree’s fur. The horse didn’t mind, knowing the boy needed comfort above all else.

“I dreamt of Narnia,” Shasta hiccupped, “We’ll go there someday, won’t we Bree?”

The horse broke his silence, dropping his voice to the level bellow a whisper and hoped Shasta could hear.

“Yes,” he promised, “To Narnia and the north.”

He prayed for it, by the Lion he prayed for it.

They were brought back to reality by a sharp, irritable voice.

“I won’t have you manhandling her!” the voice was young and female, “Now saddle her correctly, my father and I are leaving within the hour.”

Shasta looked up curiously and before Bree could stop him, had limped over to the stall door, clearly still working out stiff muscles.

He peaked his head over the door to see who was ordering things about so early.

Bree trotted over and did the same. A young, pointy faced girl stood there with her arms crossed as she bossed around the man tending to her horse, a gentle looking bay mare. Suddenly, there was the sound of a cat’s strangled meow from somewhere near Bree’s stall, though he couldn’t see where the offending creature was. Shasta gave a start and banged his knee against the wooden door, hissing with pain. The noises made the girl jerk round, drawing her attention to them.

“You there!” she exclaimed, “What are you looking at? Who are you?”

Bree and Shasta jerked back out of sight, but it was too late. The girl had come over to investigate.

“Whatever are you doing in there? And your face! How dirty!” she asked, poking her pointy face over the stall door.

Her gaze fell on Shasta’s bound hands and her mouth opened in understanding, “Oh I see, you’re a slave.”

“Don’t call me that!” Shasta snapped, surprising Bree a little with his vehemence.

The girl glared at him, looking down her nose.

“And why ever not?” she said imperiously, “That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“What would you know?” Shasta ground out, clearly not liking her in the slightest, “You’re just a girl!”

“And you’re just a stupid, rude boy! I am a Tarkeena,” the girl snapped back, her pointy face becoming pinched, “A slave should know how to address me better! I should have your master beat you for insolence!”

Bree pushed down his own temper, not sure how best to interfere.

He considered simply moving between Shasta and the Tarkeena, but the boy spoilt this plan by limping his way right up to the girl and facing her over the stall door.

“I am a person!” he growled.

This seemed to surprise the Tarkeena, for her dark eyes went wide suddenly and she stared at him in silence. She seemed to look at Shasta properly then, scanning over him like a falcon on its prey.

“You’re crying,” she said calmly.

Bree could only see the back of Shasta’s head from where he was, but he didn’t doubt the girl’s observation.

Shasta’s ears had gone red and he was trying to wipe his face on his torn sleeve.

“I am not!” he cried stubbornly.

The Tarkeena didn’t say anything, only began to rummage in the small bag she had hanging from her side.

She took something out and reached over the stall door.

“Here,” the girl said curtly, “You can eat this I suppose.”

She thrust a small, cloth wrapped parcel into his hands. He stared at her, dumbfounded.

“It’s just some dried meat and fruit,” she said, suddenly looking uncomfortably, “I was going to have it as a snack on the road, but you look like you’re about to try some of that horse’s straw!”

“But-but-“ Shasta stammered, looking down at it.

“It’s just a snack,” she sniffed, “And you can use the cloth to wipe your face when you’re done.”

Without another word, she turned away from him.

“I-“ Shasta shook himself and called, “Thank you!”

She didn’t give any indication that she had heard him. It didn’t matter, as Bree silently thanked the young Tarkeena for her kindness, he cheered at the small smile on Shasta’s face.

** ~:~ **

The rest of the journey passed in much the same way. The Tarkeena’s food turned out to be a blessing, for Anradin did not feed Shasta the entire day. He had eaten half of the dry goods in the morning before the Tarkaan had come, waiting until he was asleep to eat a little more.

Every muscle in Shasta’s body ached and his feet felt like they were going to fall off. He’d been slow to start today and had been whipped across the face. He could still feel the sting from where his skin had split.

It took another day before they reached Anradin’s home.

Even in his exhaustion, Shasta found himself gaping at the sight.

It was a palace, surely!

They walked up a dusty path, olive trees planted in groves on either side. He could see men working around them, picking the small fruits from low laying boughs and tossing them into sacks. They fell to the ground as Anradin passed, bowing to their master. Ahead, Shasta caught a glimpse of high, white stonewalls and could hear the rush of water. A river, perhaps. There were people milling around, some dressed in white and others in brown tunics.

Shasta flinched at the cowed, fearful expressions on their faces.

He was led through to the stables, where Anradin barked instructions to scurrying servants and Shasta found himself being taken away.

Away from Bree.

They freed his hands and stripped him of everything he wore. His old clothes and the bit of cloth the food from the Tarkeena had been wrapped in were all taken away and burned. Buckets of cold water were thrown over Shasta and he was scrubbed from head to foot. One of the men went about looking at his wounds and applying a stinging medicine to them.

Shasta gasped and shivered, completely humiliated by the whole experience.

He was given clothes to wear. Like the other slaves, this consisted of a pair of slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. They were loose and made from plain, brown linen. It was probably the finest thing Shasta had ever worn, he realized with no small sense of irony.

They gave him a pair of leather bound sandals too, which felt odd on feet that had gone barefoot most of their lives. They cut his hair short, slicing off the blonde curls with a knife. When Shasta reached up to feel, he found only an inch or so of growth had been left. The slice on his cheek from Anradin’s whip stung the worst.

The man applying salve had taken one look at it and shaken his head.

“That’ll scar,” he told Shasta gruffly, “No helping it.”

Shasta just shrugged, that was the least of his worries.

He tried not to flinch when the man, a Calormene servant named Abdar, had to stitch up the wound. He was tall, willowy, with a greying beard, and tired looking brown eyes. He wore a white turban and had a walking stick set at his side. When he spoke, his voice slurred every other word.

Shasta eyes were darting around, trying to take everything in.

His body felt hot and ashamed, wanting nothing more than to hang his head or start crying again. Abdar was explaining what behavior would be expected from him.

“How old are you?” he asked, his tone curt.

“Twelve,” Shasta answered quietly.

Abdar nodded, his lips becoming slightly pinched.

“You’ll sssh-tart work in the kitchens or the sssh-tables for now,” he said, “Doing errand-sssh, cleaning, that sssh-ort of thing. When you’re a bit older, the Tarkhan will decide where to put you. If you’re well behaved and biddable, you might sssh-tay in the household. If you make trouble, you’ll be sent to work out in the fields. You don’t want that, understand?”

It was a warning and Shasta could only nod, too afraid to do anything else.

“Never look the Tarkaan in the eye-sssh, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to and obey immediately,” Abdar continued, “You’ll never leave the ground-sssh on your own or without permission. If you’re working in the household, keep yourself clean and presentable at all times. Don’t get in anyone’s way or make trouble. You bow when a Tarkaan or a Tarkeena enters a room and keep your head down until you’re needed. Your life i-sssh not your own anymore. If you want to live well here, you must work hard and be obedient. I-sssh that clear?”

Shasta had to lick his lips before answering.

The more Abdar spoke, the lower he felt.

Tears stung his eyes and threatened to fall.

“Y-yes,” he managed, throat oddly tight.

Abdar’s face softened a little and he gave Shasta a pat on the shoulder.

“You’ll be fine, lad,” he said quietly, “Now go, someone will sssh-ee you fed.”

Shasta nodded quickly and left the older man, wondering if he really would be.

A thin, mean looking woman from the kitchen gave him some bread and a bowl of stew. Shasta practically inhaled the meal, having barely eaten the past few days.

When he was finished, he was taken to back to Anradin to be looked over.

The red bearded Calormene was freshly dressed and smelled strongly of scented oils.

As he stepped closer, the scent tickled Shasta’s nose, making him want to sneeze. He held very still though, his stomach twisting in knots of fear.

“Now, what to do with you,” Anradin said, looking him over, “You’re paler under all that dirt. The fairest barbarian I’ve seen in a long time.”

Shasta bit the inside of his cheeks to stop from saying anything. He had learned on their trip together that the slightest utterance of sound was enough to bring the Tarkaan’s wrath on him. He kept his eyes downcast as Abdar had said and tried not to flinch when Anradin touched his face.

“So you’ve finally learned your place, dog,” Anradin sounded amused, running his fingers to the cut on Shasta’s cheek and pressing down, hard, “I’ll keep reminding you of it, lest you forget again.”

Shasta clenched his teeth and tried not cry out as a flash of pain seared from the spot.

Tears stung his eyes, but he still didn’t move.

Eventually, after what seemed an age, the pressure was removed. His check throbbed and he could feel the warm trickle of blood gliding down his face. He dared not reach up though; he didn’t even look to see if Anradin had blood on his fingers now.

“My horse seemed to like you,” the Tarkaan said, sounding thoughtful, “Perhaps you have a natural affinity for them. Can you ride?”

Shasta shook his head.

“A pity,” the Tarkaan mused, “I should have liked to see a barbarian on a horse. Perhaps I shall give you a mule to ride and have you trained like the jesters at Tashban.”

Shasta didn’t know what a ‘jester’ was, but he didn’t like the sound of it, especially in the mocking way the Tarkaan spoke.

“Hmm, yes!” the Tarkaan gave a laugh, seeming pleased by the idea, “A barbarian made to do tricks and act the fool. It would amuse me greatly!”

The laughter died down and Anradin started to talk again.

He told Shasta that, for now, he would be sent to work in the stables. Shasta felt relieved, hoping at least that he would be close to Bree.

Before he was dismissed though, Anradin had one last thing to say. One last blow to cow his barbarian slave boy.

“I paid a pretty fortune for you boy,” the Tarkaan sneered, “Especially to that fisherman scum! Forty crescents. And I’ll have my worth out of you, if I have to beat it out! You are mine now, my dog.”

He boxed Shasta on the ear once and strode away.

That night, in the dark, lying on a hard mat and surrounded by several other bodies, Shasta wept.

The pain of the day and the reality of his situation setting in.

He had been sold. Like a fish at the market, he had been exchanged for a few pieces of coin.

_Forty crescents. _

The cost of his life.


	2. The Astronomer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shasta adjusts to his new life, he learns some interesting things about the Tarkaan and some new characters arrive at the palace.

_I have come to believe that there are infinite passageways out of the shadows, infinite vehicles to transport us into the light. _

\- Martha Beck

The next few weeks of Shasta’s life were not altogether happy, but they were no harder than his life under Arsheesh. He was put under the supervision of the Groom, a wiry, short-tempered man who only ever gave Shasta a few rough shoves. He always kept a switch in his hand, a not too subtle threat that he didn’t tolerate disobedience. Being used to tending to Arsheesh’s old donkey and taking all the scattered advice he could glean from Bree, Shasta did not find it overly difficult adjusting to the life of a stable hand. And after one of the horses became ill during the night, Shasta was now expected to sleep in the stables and always be on hand.

It took him away from the cramped little room he had been sleeping in his first few nights. A room he’d had to share with eight other slaves. As it was, Shasta was given an old blanket and had found himself a cosy place in the straw to lay his head. It was a little prickly at first, but warm and quiet. The soft snorts and brays of the horses were the only sound to rock Shasta to sleep. He was also expected to run errands, and these he dreaded above all else. This was because they would often take him within reach of Anradin.

The Tarkaan kept to his word of reminding Shasta about his place and often had a kick or a punch reserved for his newest slave. Shasta had learned the hard way never to try and avoid a blow or defend himself. The one time he tried had resulted in an awful beating. While Shasta had often received such abuse from Arsheesh (depending on his mood that day), the fisherman was neither young, nor a warrior in the Tisroc’s service. Anradin was far stronger than the man he had known to be his father all his life and had a viciousness about him that was unparalleled.

Bree would scowl and huff whenever Shasta came in with a new bruise, but of course could rarely say anything until it was so late at night, Shasta was already asleep from exhaustion.

There were several other horses in the stables. They included a fine mare, chestnut in colour, who liked it when Shasta brushed her down in the evenings, an old farm horse, taller than the tallest man Shasta had ever seen and four almost identical white horses that were trained to pull a chariot. Out in the kraal, a young, ebony stallion that had not yet been broken stood, as tall and proud as any warhorse.

He was Shasta’s favourite, though he was rough and aggressive to anyone who approached. Shasta would just stare at him sometimes, oddly drawn to the stallion’s all too pensive gaze.

Shasta’s routine was almost always the same. He’d rise before dawn to tend to the horses, usually taking them for an early morning walk across the fields and along the large lake that provided a backdrop to the Tarkaan’s palace. There on the banks, they were allowed to graze and Shasta could eat the pieces of dried meat and apple he’d been given for his breakfast. The mornings were fresh and cool with dew dampening the grass beneath Shasta’s feet. He’d look out onto the lake as the sun broke the sky, light stretching across the world as dawn awakened.

The lake was a crystal blue expanse that seemed to stretch over for miles on either side. There were other estates along the lakefront, but none as large or as grand as the one Shasta was confined to. A couple of the stable hands, all much older than Shasta, would take turns riding the horses along the lakeside to give them their exercise for the day. Then they’d sit and eat their meal together before returning to work once more. It was an oddly peaceful time and although the stable hands ignored him for the most part, Shasta enjoyed it.

When Bree was exercised, Shasta had to help saddle and strap heavy armoured pieces to the horse. This was to train the horse’s agility and balance, the Groom said, checking Shasta’s work when he was done. Arash – Bree’s Calormene name – must always be prepared for battle, he drilled. With all his tack and armour, Shasta thought Bree looked very grand indeed.

“Well of course I do,” Bree had preened one evening they’d been alone to talk, “I’m a war horse, after all.”

He’d looked Shasta over then, his eyes thoughtful.

“Stand up straight, child!” he suddenly barked, “Don’t slouch your shoulders and make yourself small like that. You’ll be a man soon and men have pride in themselves.”

“But Bree-“ Shasta started.

“Don’t let them break you,” there was almost a quiver in the destrier’s voice, “Don’t let them make you less than what you are. You have northern blood in you, wear it proudly!”

And Shasta had to smile sadly.

“There, there,” the warhorse said softly, “Chin up, Shasta my lad. We’ll escape yet, you have my word.”

Bree said it often, but Shasta wasn’t so sure anymore.

He’d had a chance to scout around since his arrival. It might have been different if they’d managed to get away at Arsheesh’s house. There, the Tarkaan would have no means of retrieving them. But here he had men and enough horse to track them down before Shasta and Bree could put significant distance between them. There was a high price for runaway slaves and Shasta knew he and Bree would stick out like sore thumbs.

Bree spent the rest of that evening telling Shasta all about the battles he’d been in.

With Bree there to make the nights less solitary, his existence was more bearable. It was dreadfully lonely otherwise. The other slaves hardly spoke and the servants more than often turned their noses up at him. There was no one his age, the next youngest being a boy of seventeen who was clearly upset about Shasta’s position in the stables. He did his best to shove into Shasta and glare at him whenever they passed.

But Shasta didn’t let it get to him; he concentrated on keeping out of Anradin’s way and doing his best in the stables. He remembered Abdar’s words at the onset of his enslavement and decided it was much safer to heed those words. He liked the stables and he didn’t want to be separated from Bree. Bree, on the other hand, seemed to take Shasta’s complacency as defeat. He wasn’t about to let that happen!

He started with instructing Shasta how to saddle him in the dead of night, making him practice over and over until he could do it quickly and accurately. Then they’d walk up and down the stable together, teaching Shasta how to sit and grip properly with his knees. As time passed, the Groom began to notice Shasta’s apparent ‘affinity’ for the animals and ‘natural’ seat.

There were only half a dozen stable workers and each had some rudimentary riding skill, the best were used to help train the horses. Shasta was small and light, perfect for many of the tasks required. He’d been tried on a horse the first day of his work in the stables and had done miserably. With Bree’s help, he improved gradually, until finally he could ride with some relative ease. After that, he was expected to exercise the horses along with the other stable hands.

It seemed like Shasta had passed some kind of unspoken test.

The first time he clambered up onto a horse’s back with the other stable hands – he was given the gentle mare to ride – he received words of advice.

“Start her off at a walk, boy,” one said, easing into pace beside him on another horse.

“There’s a trail up ahead,” another said, “To the left. We’ll take it round the fields, be sure to give her a chance to stretch her neck. But don’t yank the reins! There we go!”

It carried on like that. As the weeks went on, Shasta grew more confident. When he fell, he got up again. When his legs ached from so much time on the saddle, he didn’t complain. Bree would give a report on his progress every evening. All the while, everything the warhorse told him, was ultimately to aid them in their journey to Narnia.

Bree seemed to want to keep the hope of escape alive no matter what. And Shasta, despite himself, started to hope again, just a little bit.

** ~.~**

It wasn’t long before Shasta learned that he wasn’t living in Anradin’s home at all! But rather, the property still belonged to the Tarkaan’s father, Badr, and would do so until his death. Anradin usually lived in a city house in Calavar with his wife, but since her death in childbirth a year before had been residing in his father’s home. Shasta was surprised to learn the older Tarkaan would soon be returning after a trip to visit his eldest son, Anradin’s brother, who lived on an estate of his own much further south.

It was like a cloud had been lifted from the house. The servants started smiling, the guards were borderline friendly and even the slaves seemed to cheer. Anradin, on the other hand, was twice as ill tempered as usual.

Shasta asked Bree about it.

“Badr is a better man than his son,” Bree looked a little uncertain though, “But I shouldn’t keep my hopes up Shasta, Anradin may well decide to depart to his town house, taking us along with him!”

“He did just lose his wife and child,” Shasta put in, “Maybe that’s why he’s so mean?”

Bree snorted.

“I doubt it,” the warhorse said in a disgusted tone, “He treated his wife little better than a slave. Poor woman.”

Shasta didn’t think he wanted to know.

Bree tried to explain. It was the sad truth in Calormen that women, even Tarkheenas, were regarded as little more than property themselves. They went from their fathers’ homes to their husbands’ with little else taken into account except for the size of their dowries. Having been sold himself, Shasta knew the feeling wasn’t a good one.

Shasta didn’t think much else about this news – after all, it didn’t affect him – and carried on as usual.

He was wrong.

The party arrived late one morning as Shasta was feeding Bree. He was very suddenly called out along with the rest of the workers to greet the returning Tarkaan. They huddled into the courtyard outside the palace and knelt down as the horses came through. There were at least six. Coming up not far behind them was a large cart, heavy with crates and drawn by a pair of oxen.

Shasta hazarded a glance up as the riders dismounted.

Anradin was there to greet them, dressed as finely as Shasta had ever seen him, his crimson beard well oiled and groomed. He spread his arms dramatically, approaching one of the men who had just dismounted. The Tarkaan Badr – for it could only be him! - was as tall as his son and had clearly been a warrior in his youth. He was more willowy now, his black beard having turned grey and an old war wound forcing him to limp with a cane. He was dressed simply and moved like he was always ready to pounce.

The two men embraced, patting one another on the back for a moment before drawing apart. Shasta thought Anradin’s smile looked forced, but then, he wasn’t really accustomed to the Tarkaan wearing a smile.

“O my son!” Badr cried, smiling fondly, “I am pleased to see you safe from battle!”

“Yes, my father,” Anradin returned in his flowery speech, proceeding to sing his father’s praises, though Shasta thought the gesture seemed well practiced and not the least bit sincere.

Badr smiled good-naturedly nonetheless. Though they had the same eyes and the same face, Shasta thought there was something softer about Badr.

There was a scuffling, which attracted the attention of all assembled as a disgruntled voice suddenly rang out.

“Be careful, you great lummox! That’s sensitive equipment in those crates!”

A crash.

“I told you! Of all the bloody-“

“Magnus!” Badr called out over the voice, “Magnus! Come and meet my son.”

There was some movement from behind the horses and cart.

A man finally stepped out, coming to stand beside the older Tarkaan.

Shasta stared.

The man beside Badr was as pale as he was dark. Shasta found himself gaping slightly, never having seen a person more similar to himself in colouring than the Calormene. The man – Magnus - had salt and pepper hair, which was shoulder length and stuck up in all directions. His beard was short, but just as scruffy, which only served to extenuate his very long, crooked nose and he had a rather piercing pair of sky blue eyes.

Shasta had never seen anyone with blue eyes before.

His clothes were different too, more colourful.

He wore a long, midnight blue waistcoat over a dark shirt and green breeches. There was a cap on his head, which made a valiant, if futile, effort to contain the chaos of his hair and he had an odd contraption hanging about his neck. It looked like it was made from wire and glass. When he approached Anradin, he placed the odd thing on his face, pushing it up onto his nose.

He blinked, his blue eyes magnified by two pieces of glass.

“Well hello!” he announced jovially, extending a hand to Anradin, “Pleasure to finally meet you, young man.”

The young Tarkaan looked like he’d rather wrestle a crocodile than touch Magnus’ outstretched hand. But he did it, his eyes all the time on his father. Badr’s own hawk like gaze narrowed, but the smile stayed on his face.

“Magnus, my friend,” he said, “Let me have a man show you to your rooms. Then perhaps you will join us for refreshments in an hour?”

“Ah yes, of course,” Magnus said absently, as though he hadn’t noticed the tension coming off Anradin in the slightest, “My man and I will get settled in then. Come along Fezile! Lets make sure they don’t destroy too much of my equipment.”

A giant of a man followed Magnus up the steps. He was at least a head taller than the tallest man Shasta had ever seen. Why, he could probably have given the old farm horse a run for his money in that category. How he had remained hidden in the crowd of horses and crates was a mystery. And as pale as Magnus was, this man was dark. Even darker than the Calormene. His head was shaved and he had three, gold rings pierced into his left ear. He was dressed like a guardsman in light, leather armour with a sword hanging from his belt. He didn’t say anything as he disappeared up the steps to the palace, but flashed a grin at Anradin as he passed. His teeth looked impossibly white in his dark face.

The young Tarkaan glared.

Shasta knew that look.

The crimson bearded man was furious.

Badr seemed to read it too, for he asked; “You seem displeased, dearest son.”

“You have invited a foreigner?” Andradin sneered, “O my father, moon of my life, is such a thing wise?”

“Blessed son,” said the old Tarkaan, “Magnus has been good friend and council to me since I sailed over the glittering seas in my youth. Now he has come to help fulfill a most ardent dream!”

“Dream?”

“Yes,” Badr’s smile was huge, “Surely it is a dream sent by Tash himself, for it was wondrous! For three months I have had the same vision. A full map of the night sky, drawn with the detail and art only an astronomer of Magnus’ caliber could attain.”

“Calormen has many fine astronomers, my father,” Anradin did not seem impressed, “Why employ the talents of this barbarian?”

“Be wary of thy words, my dearest son,” Badr’s tone became commanding, clearly this man was used to being obeyed, “He has my respect and I shall expect the son of my flesh to afford him the grace owed such a master. I am still head of this household.”

Properly cowed by his father’s words, or so it seemed, Anradin bowed his head in assent and gestured for Badr to enter the palace first.

As the older man walked away, Shasta quickly ducked his head, for Anradin’s gaze had fallen in his direction. He could feel the intensity of his stare as though it were a hot poker. He squeezed his eyes shut, silently begging not to be noticed. Nothing happened for a long while and Shasta hazarded a glace up to see the Tarkaan was speaking to one of the servant. A few moments later, Anradin swept up the steps and into the palace, his expression something between grim and irritable.

As he and the others disappeared from sight, the rest of the servants and slaves began to disperse. Shasta got to his feet quickly, eager to get back to the stables.

"Not you," a gruff voice said, laying a hard hand on his shoulder.

Shasta looked round to find himself face to face with the head of the household servants, the same heavy man Anradin had whispered to not minutes before.

"Sir?" Shasta chocked out, confused.

"You'll serve the Tarkaans and their guests," he said, "Go round to the kitchens and get yourself cleaned up and outfitted accordingly. Go."

Shasta didn't dare disobey, he ran to do as he was told.

A short time later he was dressed in the white of the house servants, his blonde hair slightly damp and a truly foul smelling perfume had been sprayed generously onto him. He carried a tray laden with fresh fruits, dates and honey soaked cakes. His stomach rumbled at the display of food, which was more than he had seen altogether in his life.

He followed three other servants, all of them carrying just as much food on their trays, through the palace. Shasta had never actually been inside before and couldn't quite help staring. Everywhere he looked there was richness and colour.

The tiles marble beneath his feet boasted an intricate pattern, the large windows that looked out into the blue lake were framed with golden gauze, cushioned alcoves and silken carpets were abound. And then they came to the hall where the Tarkaan’s dined. Shasta couldn’t help but gape. He had never seen anything so grand in his life. The room was tiled in blue and white, each piece sporting part of an ornate pattern. Even the high ceilings were painted with beautiful floral designs. In the hot climate of Calormen, the room had been built to provide coolness and Shasta could smell a light perfumed scent in the air.

The two Tarkaans and the man Magnus sat together on silken cushions, each holding a cup of cool sherbet and selecting foods from the servant’s trays as they came. Shasta followed the example of the others, kneeling before each man in turn and not looking up at their faces. He wondered where the tall, dark man Fezile had disappeared.

Because he was not looking at their faces, he missed the dark look that crossed Badr’s face and the stern glare he sent his son. As it was, he did hear the old Tarkaan say in a light tone; “Here’s a face I haven’t seen before. You there! Take his burden from him. Boy, come here.”

  
Shasta blinked, looking up in surprise his tray was lifted away from him and he was ushered towards Badr. He didn’t dare look at Anradin, so he found himself staring directly at the old Tarkaan. Now he was closer, he could see Badr’s face was lined and that he had had a scar running down his right cheek. A very odd expression crossed the old Tarkaan’s face suddenly, something like surprise, but it was very quickly masked and Shasta was sure he had imagined it.

“A new slave?” Badr said off-handedly, eyes darting to his son, “Quite small, isn’t he?”

“Perhaps,” Anradin did not look pleased at being questioned.

“Come closer,” Badr beckoned to Shasta, who obeyed quickly, unwilling to receive another cuff about the ear.

The Tarkaan took him by the chin when he was close enough and inspected Shasta like he was a horse at market. He checked his teeth, felt for the muscles in his arms and peered into his eyes.

Shasta stared back, which seemed to please him.

It was only when the Tarkaan let go of Shasta’s face that he remembered he was supposed to keep his eyes downcast. Too late now, he supposed, not lowering them.

“A bit of spirit, I see,” Badr muttered and then in a louder voice asked, “Your name, boy?”

“Shasta,” he answered, still not looking away.

“Hmm, a Calormene name,” he said, “Where are you from?”

“I grew up in a fishing village, a few days from here,” Shasta said truthfully, though the Tarkaan’s eyes widened.

“Indeed?” he looked curious, “Then what of your parents? Where did they come from?”

“I-I never knew them,” Shasta tried to sound detached, but failed miserably, “I was raised by Arsheesh, the fisherman.”

Badr frowned slightly and Shasta thought there might be sympathy in his eyes, but that might just be wishful thinking. The man, Magnus, was staring at him too. He wondered if this man thought him a ‘northern barbarian.’

The question of parents brought a tight feeling to his chest.

The sting of Arsheesh’s betrayal and lies still lingered and was mixed now with an odd sense of longing. Was his real father the dead man in the boat? That seemed to be the most likely. Perhaps his whole family had perished in the sea? And how would he ever know for sure? He was just a slave now. Suddenly, Shasta felt very alone in the world.

_Why, I might be anybody! I might be the son of a Tarkaan myself – or the son of the Tisroc (may he live forever) – or of a god! _

As he recalled his thoughts from that night he had found out the truth, Shasta knew he had been foolish. He’d spent so long living in his dreams of something – anything – else, that the idea of Arsheesh not being his father had been an exciting one. In the weeks since, he had realised two awful truths. He was an orphan and no one was looking for him.

And now, the only friend he had was Bree.

His eyes started stinging without him meaning them too. He blinked rapidly several times and fought to keep the tears from falling. He’d felt humiliated enough.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll work hard,” Badr said, not unkindly.

Shasta nodded, sensing he was being dismissed and stepped back from the Tarkaan.

Anradin was watching the exchange, his expression blank. 

Shasta, unsure of what to do, went to kneel beside the other servants, but was stopped by Anradin. He made Shasta sit near him, holding a tray out for him to eat from. Shasta knew his arms would start to ache soon, but he dared not utter a word.

All the time, he was very aware of Badr’s piercing gaze and the uncomfortable looks Magnus sent his way. He ignored it though, instead tuning in to the conversation the three were having, for it was unlike anything Shasta had ever heard before.

Badr was describing the dream he had had in vivid detail that had sent him to seek out Magnus, an old friend from his youth. The two laughed together, recalling youthful exploits and adventures across the Eastern Sea. Shasta, who had dreamed of the north all his life, had grown up beside that same sea. He’d never seen anything in it but endlessness, but the way these men described it, he too wished he could set sail on a boat into the unknown.

As they spoke though, Shasta began to wonder about other things. He was carried away by it all so much in fact, that he quite forgot where he was.

“What's an astronomer?” Shasta blurted out before he could stop himself.

Anradin looked like he was going to hit him and had started to raise a hand to do so, but Magnus smiled warmly and answered.

“I study the stars, boy,” he said, cutting off Anradin from his purpose, his blue eyes oddly hard, “I make maps and charts of the night sky, I look for changes in the heavens, you see. I also do a bit of navigation and cartography.”

“A bit?” Badr looked amused, “Why friend, I should wager you are the most sought out mapmaker in all the world!”

Magnus actually blushed and gave Badr a friendly smack on the arm.

“I’ll have none of that Calormene flattery,” he stated, but winked at Shasta.

Shasta almost smiled, liking the man.

He couldn’t quite turn up his lips though, because Anradin suddenly grabbed him, yanking him to his feet. The tray fell from his hands, clattering to the ground and spraying food all over the fine carpets. This seemed to enrage the Tarkaan all the more.

“Silence dog,” he hissed in Shasta’s ear and turned to his father and Magnus, “I must show this slave his new task and it appears, give him a lesson on when not to speak!”

Badr didn’t say anything, but Shasta thought his expression became darker. He wondered if it was directed at Anradin…_or him_.

The Tarkaan merely waved his son off and Shasta found himself being yanked by his shirt. _New task?_ He wondered, suddenly afraid, _whatever could he mean by that?_

**~.~ **

Servants scurried around to clean up the mess made by Anradin’s temper.

Magnus found himself standing by one of the large windows, looking down into the yard to see if Anradin would take the boy out that way. The sight of him had startled the old astronomer more than he would like to admit. Although foreigners or ‘barbarians’ weren’t exactly rare in Calormen and slaves were certainly abundant, they were still an uncommon enough sight to draw attention.

“Your son leaves soon, doesn’t he?” Magnus drawled.

Badr nodded solemnly.

“Another war,” he said wearily, “An uprising, I’m told. His letter wasn’t very explicit, but I thought it best to relocate here before he disappears from my sight once more.”

Magnus clicked his tongue.

“He’ll be fine, I’m sure,” he told his friend, “You did teach him everything you know.”

Badr laughed outright.

“I taught him everything _he_ knows,” the smile faded, “Well, perhaps not everything.”

Magnus smiled slightly at that, knowing that was Badr’s way of apologizing on his son’s behalf. Calormene were odd ones.

“Your elder son is better mannered,” Magnus remarked.

“Anradin is too much like his mother,” Badr said good humouredly, “Far too serious.”

“Downright nasty,” the astronomer drawled.

“Ah, she was a bit sour, I suppose,” the old Tarkaan laughed to himself.

“Never knew what you saw in her,” Magnus continued.

“She was very beautiful. And young,” Badr shrugged, “I was flattered.”

“You old dog,” his friend mocked.

The Tarkaan shot him an unrepentant smirk and the two old friends fell into laughter, continuing to tease one another about their past, romantic faux pas. Like boys on the ship again, trying to outstrip each other in their limited experience and knowledge of the opposite sex. _Stars above, did he miss those days!_

Magnus’ gaze found itself wandering out the window again.

The slave boy had appeared in the courtyard with Andradin. The young Tarkaan was standing over him, the child’s shoulders slumped a little in defeat as he listened to his master berate him. Magnus sighed internally and turned his gaze. It was much easier that way.

“This map of yours is the largest project I’ve ever been given,” he commented, “I hope you’re prepared to see my ugly face every morning for a long while.”

“And who better to spend my old age with?” Badr teased, “We shall spend the time between chasing pretty serving girls and giving my son grief!”

“I don’t think your son would agree with your plans,” Magnus pointed out sardonically, “He wasn’t too impressed with my presence in your home.”

Badr gave a dismissive laugh.

“Ah, but Tash himself has ordained your presence here, that he cannot argue with.”

The old astronomer quirked an eyebrow at his old friend.

“Truly? You believe your god wishes me to draw a map for you?” Magnus shook his head, “For what purpose, I wonder.”

“I have faith, my old friend,” Badr said with a wink, causing Magnus to shake his head.

“I remember your faith,” he returned, his tone playful, “I went to bed hungry quite a few nights because of your _faith_.”

Badr shook his head.

“Always stuck in your books,” he laughed, “One day, faith will find you and there won’t be a word in all your tomes to help you make sense of it!”

“Bah!” Magnus snorted disbelievingly, his gaze trailing after the slave boy.


End file.
